


On the Mend

by orphan_account



Category: Metallica
Genre: Angst, Anxiety, Drama, M/M, Marital Issues, Relationship Issues, Romance, couples therapy, intimacy issues, mental health, panic disorder
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-10-10
Updated: 2020-10-10
Packaged: 2021-03-08 03:07:34
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 9,802
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/26938630
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/orphan_account/pseuds/orphan_account
Summary: James and Lars's relationship during the lull between the end of the St. Anger tour to the beginning of what would be called the Death Magnetic era.
Relationships: James Hetfield/Lars Ulrich
Comments: 1
Kudos: 16





	On the Mend

**Author's Note:**

> Based on the Foo Fighters album In Your Honor. Set in a time when Lars missed a show at Donnington 2004 because of a massive panic attack he had on the flight heading to London.

_October 2004_  
  
Lars sat up against the headboard, staring at the computer screen on his lap. Beside him laid a stack of faxes, documents and itineraries to sift through before the gig. His eyes ran down a long list of names, next to a long list of phone numbers. Friends to call, backstage passes to secure, asking how they were doing, what’s up, anything going on— _are you okay,_ they’d ask, and he’d hang up in time before the conversation went any further.  
  
He stared up at the ceiling, running a hand down the side of his face, through his beard.  
  
June still infected his life. He felt it in his bones, weighing on his mind. He saw it on people’s faces, from family to fans. Their concern was sweet but unnecessary.  
  
_I’m fine. I didn’t die. No big deal._  
  
The German doctor three months ago shook her head no. “This isn’t something to take lightly. You can’t keep this schedule anymore.”  
  
“It’s how I am.”  
  
“Then fix it.”  
  
Lars closed the computer screen and pushed it off his lap.  
  
Outside his window, Buffalo traffic rolled on easy. It lacked the stress of New York and Los Angeles, the winding weaves of San Francisco and DC. During the winter, it was a winter hellhole. But it wasn’t too bad for October. The trees bloomed red and yellow, light snow littered the ground—it was comfortable, this city. Friendly atmosphere and friendly people. A nice place for their last stop in the tour, before they’d come back in four days.  
  
_I don’t want to go home._  
  
The knock on his door startled Lars out of his thoughts. He checked his watch—six to noon—and he smiled, turning away from the window. _A little early, as usual._  
  
On the other side stood James with a greasy bag in one hand, sodas in the other, and a shy smile on his face. “Hey.”  
  
“Hi.” Lars kissed his cheek. “Come in.”  
  
They ate together in the living room, talking everything but the band, just like their couples therapist said to do. Not once did James ask him if he was okay, which Lars appreciated more than anything. He didn’t even bug him about all the work on his bed. He only kissed his cheek when they finished and said, “If you need any help, let me know.”  
  
Lars smiled, watching James walk down the hall. When he couldn’t see him anymore, he closed the door and leaned against it.  
  
_I still love him._  
  
He sighed and pushed away, heading back to the bedroom and his work. Those were thoughts for later, during the break.

***

_November 2004_  
  
“I miss you,” James said.  
  
Lars looked up from his plate. “What?”  
  
Across the table, James’s hands fidgeted, the candlelight bouncing off his rings and the gold cross around his neck. “I miss you… with me. In my life.” His eyes shined when he looked up. “I love you, Lars.”  
  
Lars looked away, outside the window, where Monterey boardwalk lit the ocean up.

His mouth felt dry as Lars said, “It’s not a matter of loving you. Because I do love you.” His fork clinked against the china, fingers sliding down the tablecloth. “I just don’t know if—I mean…” His chair squeaked, leaning back into it. “I don’t know if I’m ready yet, okay?” His hands slid to his lap, weaving together. He shook his head. “Quite frankly, I’m scared.”  
  
“I don’t blame you.”  
  
Lars shut his eyes. Around them, silverware cluttered and conversation fluttered in the air.

“So why now?" he asked. "Because the tour’s almost over?”  
  
“Sort of.” He heard James’s wooden chair squeak. His soft whisper almost didn’t reach his ears. “I just don’t want to live in an empty house.”  
  
His head sharply turned back to James. He found him fiddling with one of his rings, like he would back in the 90s, the 80s, turning it around and around.  
  
“James…”  
  
“It’s fine.” He shrugged. “You’re not ready. I’m not going to push you.”  
  
“I’m sorry—”  
  
“Don’t be. Not your fault I screwed up.”  
  
“Hey, I’m no innocent either, okay, I’m no saint. I screwed around just as much as you did. But it’s done and over with. We talked about this numerous times. We’ll be okay. And as weird as this sounds, I’m glad to know you’re ready. I’ll just have to play catch up.” He smiled a little. “I always have to be late to everything, uh?”  
  
James’s lips formed a small smile. His eyes drifted back to Lars. “Yeah. Guess so.”  
  
When they returned to their oceanside inn, James accompanied Lars to his room and kissed his cheek goodnight. And Lars lingered in the doorway, watching him go down the hall, wondering if James intended to live in the old house, or the new one he himself bought a month ago.

***

_December 2004_  
  
The nightmare left Lars shaken enough to pick up the phone and call James. A few rings later, the man answered, his voice thick from sleep. “Hello?”  
  
“Hi.”  
  
“Lars?”  
  
“Sorry. I, um— _shit._ ”  
  
“Are you okay?”  
  
Lars rubbed his forehead. “I have no fucking clue.” He paced the bedroom in a circle. “I just… I don’t know.”  
  
“What happened?”  
  
“It’s stupid.”  
  
“I don’t mind.”  
  
“It's _really_ stupid, okay? Fuck.” Lars hugged his free arm around his waist, stopping in the middle of the room. “Fucking stupid nightmare. Let me put it this way: you, me, a hospital. And nothing good came out of that.”  
  
“I’ll be there in twenty.”  
  
Lars startled. “What?”  
  
“See you in a bit.”  
  
“James, don’t.” He turned to the clock on his wall. “It’s fucking two in the—” The phone went dead. Lars groaned, pulling it away and flinging it to the bed. “Dammit. I just wanted to talk to you, idiot. That’s it.”  
  
Twenty minutes later, he found James in black pajama pants, a Raiders sweat shirt and flip-flops, his mussed hair sticking up in places. “Hi.”  
  
Lars shook his head. “Fuck’s sake, Hetfield.” He pulled James inside. “It’s not like I was dying.”  
  
“Sorry…”  
  
“It’s fine.” He placed a hand on the small of his back, steering him to the kitchen. “I made us some cocoa.”  
  
They sat at the table side-by-side, a bag of marshmallows between their two mugs. Lars cradled his in both hands, his eyes closed. James slid his fingers up and down the handle of his own, staring into the liquid.  
  
James fidgeted in his seat. “So… wanna talk?”  
  
Lars snorted. “As much as this will surprise you, no, I don’t.” He took a long sip. “I just want to sit here, drink my cocoa and go to bed.”  
  
“Why’d you call then?”  
  
“Because I’m an idiot.” Lars’s mug clinked against the table’s surface. “I wasn’t thinking. I had the nightmare, it fucked me up, and instinct told me to call someone.”  
  
“So you called me.”  
  
He shrugged. “Of course.”  
  
“And you _don’t_ want to talk?”  
  
“Honestly, I’m not as fucked as I was half an hour or so ago. I’m better.” He took another sip. “I appreciate it though, you coming over. That was nice.”  
  
“Right.” He heard James gulp down some cocoa, and then: “Nice is me staying on the phone while you talk for hours. This is more than nice.”  
  
Lars sighed, pushing his mug up the table. He leaned back in his chair, turning his head away to stare at the kitchen wall. “You didn’t have to come.”  
  
“Yeah, I know.”  
  
“So why did you, uh?”  
  
“Because you called me at two in the morning and my instinct told me to help you—”  
  
“You could’ve—”  
  
“—by being there, in person.”  
  
“—stayed on the phone, dammit.” Lars ran a hand over his hair. “What the fuck do you want from me, James? Really.” He pulled at the ends, and then slammed his palm onto his thigh. “I told you I wasn’t ready.”  
  
“This isn’t about that.”  
  
“Then what is?!” He whipped back around to glare at James. “I’m sorry I called you, okay? It’s obvious now I shouldn’t have. I like that you came over to talk to me in person, but it was unnecessary, alright? I’m not—”  
  
“I know.”  
  
“—going to let you come back so fast, no matter how much—”  
  
“I _know_ , Lars. Okay? I know.” James looked away, down to the floor. “I’m sorry.”  
  
Lars’s chest ached, watching James’s eyes drift shut and his body slump over, slow turning away from him. He closed his eyes, took a deep breath, and reached out to him, grabbing his forearm. “Wait. Please.” He squeezed it, holding in place until James turned back and looked at him again. “I didn’t mean to attack you that way. Hell, I shouldn’t have. I’m the sorry one.” He pulled his hand away. “I’ll be honest. I called you because the nightmare concerned both of us, and it fucked me up, and I needed to hear your voice in order to reassure me you were okay, as stupid as that sounds. But I’m glad you came over to check up on me though. I like being around you. I just took it too far, obviously.”  
  
James nodded. “It’s okay.”  
  
“Okay. Good.” He nodded back, taking another deep breath. “Good, good. Cool.”  
  
“I got worried too.” Lars froze, watching James turn his head back to his mug on the table. “You know. We’re away from each other, you called late at night—I thought the worst. And… I like being there physically. Like I’m actually doing something.” He shrugged. “That’s all.”  
  
James’s hands reached for the mug, tipping it to his lips. Lars watched him drink the rest, stand up and his head followed James’s walk to the sink behind them.  
  
“Jay—” Lars cleared his throat. “James…”  
  
“I should’ve told you flat out. I don’t know why.” James’s hands flattened on the sink’s rim. Lars watched the corner of his lips curl up. “Guess I still have things to learn.”  
  
His body finally moved out of the chair when James headed for the doorway to the kitchen. His hand grabbed James’s forearm again, snatching it up and holding him in place.  
  
“Don’t go.” He rounded around James, standing in front of him. “Stay. It’s late. You’re tired and you can drive back in the morning.”  
  
James’s brief shock turned into amusement. “Is _that_ my excuse?”  
  
Lars smiled back. His free hand lifted up to rest on James’s sternum. “Yeah.” He pushed up on his tip-toes to kiss his lips, and he looked up into his eyes when he whispered, “Mine too.”  
  
Their smiles faltered and disappeared the longer they stared at each other. Neither one moved.  
  
Then, James’s free arm snaked around Lars’s waists, pulling them close until their chests touched. His forehead pressed against Lars’s. “Okay.” His eyes slowly fell shut. “I’ll stay.”  
  
A voice popped up in the back of Lars’s head when they laid down in bed, James curling around Lars’s back, the sheets tucked around their waists. _You’re going too fast, you shouldn’t be doing this, you’ll give him the wrong idea_ —and he stopped that voice from going any further, by taking James’s hand in his and weaving their fingers together.  
  
_Thank you._  
  
He slept easier the rest of the night, holding James’s arm to his chest.

***

_January 2005_  
  
Lars found James in the kitchen, as he had the past week, sitting at the table in a Raiders jersey and sweat pants, the usual big bowl of Honey Nut Cherrios between his forearms. He leaned against the doorframe, watching James eat bite after bite, one hand holding the spoon, the other flipping the pages of today’s newspaper. It looked too cozy and perfect, a comfortable sight that made the nagging voice in the back of his head nag louder. _He shouldn’t be here, what are you doing, hasn’t he stayed long enough, letting him stay a few days was pushing it, but a week, a fucking week—_  
  
James turned his head up to him. His tired smile matched the fatigue in his rumble. “Mornin’.”  
  
He smiled back. “Don’t you ever go home?”  
  
“Eventually.”  
  
“Uh-huh.” Lars pushed off the frame, walking cross-armed to James’s side. “Come on over, park on my couch, eat all my cereal, take my bananas—”  
  
James chuckled.  
  
“—and you know I like eating bananas to start my day after a run. Dick. You just enjoy pestering me every morning, uh?” Lars looked down at him, shaking his head. “What am I going to do with you?”  
  
“It is your house.”  
  
“It is, isn’t it?”  
  
“Mhm.”  
  
He gave James a look-over. Mussed hair, tired eyes, tired smile—Lars’s stomach flipped, and that voice came back shouting _too fast, too fast_ —and he unfurled his arms, reaching out a hand to touch James’s head.  
  
His fingers weaved through the scalp. Hair passed through, tickling the webbings. Soft hair, sticking up all over. Bed hair from his own bed, from his own pillow. It felt good. It smelled good.  
  
James’s eyes drifted shut. His head tilted and moved with Lars’s strokes.  
  
Another stomach flip. _Dammit James._  
  
He stepped closer. His knees pressed James’s side, and soon, his hand pushed James’s head to his stomach.  
  
“Whatever.” His other hand joined in to mess up James’s hair more. “I like you too much anyway.”  
  
“Yeah?” James’s voice sounded soft.  
  
“Yeah.” Lars chuckled. “Bastard.”  
  
It shouldn’t have been hard seeing James go. That was the arrangement: one week in the house—a week to begin the New Year—and then James was off to visit family in LA, followed by a three-day car show in Murrieta/Temecula area. He’d be back in a week, week and a half, and James promised to call, so there was no reason to feel sad, or hurt, or whatever. They needed the distance anyway, as their couples therapist suggested and they followed. Touring for the last twenty-some years, half of that “together”-together, showed them both, distance away meant better time spent when alone. But nothing seemed to stop the ache that grew in his chest when he watched James hop in his truck and drive away.  
  
Lars leaned against the front doorway, staring in the direction where James left. _I miss you already._ He sighed, turning back into the house. _Dammit._  
  
Later, he stocked up in cereals for the week—just in case.

***

_February 2005_

James finally answered Lars after a long period of silence. “How long?”

“A month or two. Maybe more.”

“Does Dr. Robinson know?”

“Not our therapist, but mine does. She encouraged it.”

“Oh.”

“I know I should've told our therapist, but I need to do this James.” Lars looked out the bedroom window, where the taxi cab rolled up to the curb, outside the gate of his own home. “I need time for me.” 

More silence. He took the time to check his things: airplane tickets, money, luggage, gifts for the family, camera—

“Can I call you?”

Lars stopped the sure from passing his lips. _No. Maybe._ He sighed, running a hand through his hair. _I don’t know. I don’t fucking know._

James mumbled, “I mean, if that’s okay…”

_Shit._ “I’ll call you. Once I’m settled down and shit. I don’t remember the number, sorry.”

“Will we pick up therapy after that?”

“Maybe. I don't know. The time difference might be too much.”

“Oh. That's right.”

“We can talk about it later, okay?” Lars pushed up from the bed, reaching for his luggage. “I gotta go now, the taxi just arrived.”

“Okay. Have a safe flight.”

“Thanks James.”

“Love you,” and the way he said it stopped Lars again. He sounded vulnerable, sad—afraid. “I’ll see you soon?”

Afraid and hopeful.

_Goddamnit._

Lars turned to a photo on the wall of them on Valentine’s Day, the catalyst for his sudden departure. The image immortalized and embodied the end of their perfect day: Carmel at sunset, James’s arm around his shoulder, his arm around James’s waist, their smiles, their looks at each other— _we’re supposed to look at camera you know_ , and James laughed, squeezed his shoulder, closed his eyes, leaned in and—

“Lars?”

He reached for the photo, taking it down from the wall. “You will.” A sharp turn around, toward the suitcase, and Lars walked over to open it. “I promise. Gotta go now.”

“Bye.”

“See ya.” He smiled at James in the photo. “Love you too.”

Lars situated the picture between his clothes before he walked out the door.

***

_March 2005_

“He’s not back yet?” Pepper asked.

James shook his head no.

“Huh.” Pepper looked at the wall. His hand drummed fingers on the kitchen table. Behind him, the big screen TV played the last commercial, then switched back to their Big Game. “I’m surprised. Not like him to run away.”

“He didn’t.”

“He went to another country last minute.”

“We've had a couples therapy session since then.”

“One session.”

“He didn’t _run away_.” James leaned his head into the cabinet, his face covered by the door. “He just... needed a break.”

“A break,” Pepper deadpanned.

James shrugged. “He deserves it.”

“And you don't?”

“It's fine, Pep.”

“And you're not answering my question. Don't _you_ deserve a break too like he apparently does?”

“It's not the same. He said he wanted to go home and see his family.”

“Uh-huh.”

“Don’t read anything into it.” James pulled out a big unopened bag of Tostada chips. He ripped it open and poured the contents into a huge bowl. “If he needs more time, I can wait.”

“Right.”

The empty bag landed in the trash under the sink. James crossed the room to the fridge. “Salsa, guac or cheese?”

“Whatever.”

He pulled the door open and reached in.

His hand closed around the salsa container when Pepper said, “He’s an asshole. I know he’s your guy and all, but fact’s fact.”

James slammed the door hard. The fridge rattled.

He didn’t look at Pepper as he crossed back to the cabinets and took out a white bowl. The cap made a loud pop when he twisted it off and poured the salsa in.

Pepper’s long sigh sounded like a growl. “Look. You know I like Lars. He’s a good guy, and hell, I think you two were good together, before the whole thing went to hell. I’m really glad hearing that things are going well again and that you've been doing couples therapy together, even with him far away. You of all people deserve to be happy. But the fact is that you waiting, and waiting, and waiting, all because he’s not ready, is a dick move on Lars’s part. He’s being inconsiderate and selfish, flat out. I mean, if the guy wasn’t ready, why put your hopes up? Why not say, let’s go through with this when I’m mentally prepared for a relationship with you again? And I mean completely break contact. No hanging out, no going somewhere to dinner, no staying overnight shit—he should’ve said no. And he didn’t. All I see, at least, from what you’ve told me, is that he’s using you—or more like, stringing you along, because he’s confused as shit.”

James snapped his head to Pepper. “You think I don’t know that?”

“You sure don’t act like it.”

“Fuck you.”

He flung the salsa container into the trash can. His hands squeezed around the countertop’s rim, back hunched, his attention focused outside the kitchen window. A sigh passed through his lips.

_Dammit._ James closed his eyes. _Goddamnit Lars._

From the living room, the crowd roared loud. Vague words filtered into the kitchen— _touchdown, Oakland ahead, Raider fans in the Black Hole_ —and then a chair skidded on the floor.

“I know you didn’t want to hear any of this, but you’re no pushover, James.” Footsteps clicked across the floor, coming close to him. A hand touched his shoulder. “You don’t deserve this.” Fingers squeezed down. “If he wants to wait, fine. Make him wait too.”

The hand squeezed him one more time, and then let go to pat his shoulder. He felt arms brush his, followed by footsteps leaving the kitchen.

When he opened his eyes again, both bowls were gone, and the sky outside turned grey and heavy with clouds.

_Make him wait too._

James rubbed a hand through his hair as he left the kitchen.

That night, he laid in bed and stared at the ceiling, wondering if Hawaii was the better destination of choice, or somewhere nice in South America instead.

***

_April 2005_

“You’re scared,” Lars's cousin Stein said. 

Lars shrugged. “If you see it that way.”

Stein leaned back into his seat. His hands left the table to fold in his lap. “Really, Lars. Why _are_ you here?”

“I already told you. I wanted to go home. I wanted to see the family.”

“And get away from James.”

“It's a _break._ ”

“Uh-huh.”

Lars sighed, running a hand over his faced. He watched his cousins—Stein’s sons—play in the backyard outside the living room window. “Why are you on my ass with this?”

“Because James left now too.”

“So?”

Stein gave him a look.

Lars rolled his eyes. “For fuck’s sake, it’s not like I don’t know where he is.”

“When’s the last time you called him?”

“A week ago. We had couple's therapy.”

“No, that was therapy. I'm talking about when you and him talked outside of that.

“I don't know, two, three weeks before that? We talked then.”

“I was there, Lars. _He_ called _you_. I’m asking when did _you_ last call _him_.”

“Look—” Lars stopped when he heard the backyard door slide open, and the yells and shouts of Stein’s sons ran into the house, past Daddy and Uncle, right to Mommy at the counter, making sandwiches. He turned back to his cousin, leaned in and whispered under his breath, “I love him. We’re fine. It’s a break. That’s it. Alright?”

“Mm.” Stein patted his cousin’s arm with a nod. “If you say so.”

He watched Stein cross the kitchen over to his sons, picking up the youngest and placing him on his hip. Lars reached for his glass of lemonade and stared out the window.

His reflection stared back at him—and Lars found the old anxiety there, like he hadn’t in two months.

_Shit._

He took a long walk around the neighborhood, smoking a cigarette, thinking about everything but Stein’s words, and James.

***

_May 2005_

When Lars arrived back inside his hotel room in Toulouse, he finally turned on his cell and checked his messages—a three week pile of texts and voicemails all wondering what was he up to, how he was doing in France, when he was coming back either home to Copenhagen or home to the US, so on and so on.  
  
He heard Stein’s voice, read Stein’s words. Heard his father’s voice, read his uncle and aunt’s words. Other cousins. Other friends. Their couples therapist, asking when they would make up for their last missed session. His own therapist, checking in on his well being.   
  
Nothing from James.

Absolutely nothing.  
  
Lars flung the phone onto the table.  
  
The doubts reemerged in his head. _He left you. He doesn’t want you. No surprise, you fucked up. You were afraid. You were scared. You made him wait too long, and now he’s gone. Now he doesn’t want you anymore. It’s over. You fucked up. You fucked up._  
  
Lars slumped in his chair. He ran a hand over his face, scratching his beard.  
  
On his nightstand laid the framed photo of them on Valentine’s. He caught James’s smile in the lamplight.  
  
He closed his eyes, rubbing the bridge of his nose.  
  
There was James again, behind his lids. His smile, his arms—quietly guiding him through the white halls of the German hospital, out to their waiting limo. Taking him to bed. Eating with him for breakfast, backstage at the gig for lunch, not bothering him post-gig for dinner. He gave him space, gave him time, gave him room to breathe until it was too much, and James didn’t complain him, when he asked to sleep over a few nights. James never said anything. Age-old fear of James’s judgmental tendencies kept Lars from really relaxing around him, but it was a crutch he needed—a crutch gave James easily. A crutch James kept giving easily, even when Lars didn’t lean on it anymore. It was always there, ready for him to use.  
  
And now it wasn’t there. Because Lars left it. He threw it away.  
  
_Fuck._  
  
Lars took a deep breath in and out.  
  
Again. Inhale. Hold. Exhale.  
  
His hand drifted to his chest, over his sternum. Sharp, stabbing pain. Heartbeat rising. Constricting. Suffocating.   
  
Breathing felt impossible with every passing second.   
  
He knew these pains, the stretching across his rib cage, the rising panic clawing at his throat and stomach. He knew full well what was happening, and he knew what options he had in his mental toolbox, given to him by his therapist. He could fall on the ground and go into that yoga pose, a child's pose. He could squeeze his hands and focus on the sensations there. He could start naming the items in the room, what smells he could pick up, what sounds he could hear. 

But the rushing in his brain, the burning in his chest, the tears in his eyes and the rushing thoughts of _I gotta get outta here I'm gonna die I can't do this I can't do this someone help me someone stop this oh god oh fuck OH GOD--_

Lars squeezed his fists tight, knuckles turning white. He hissed through his clenched teeth. 

Inhale. Hold. Exhale. 

Inhale. Longer hold. Longer, louder exhale. 

The more he breathed, the more labored it sounded. The more he exhaled, the shakier it sounded. 

As his heart returned to a semblance of normal, his thoughts calmed to one, simple mantra that repeated again and again in his head.   
  
_I can’t do it alone. I can't do it alone. I can't do it. I can't._

His head tilted back, his hand rubbing his collarbones. 

_I can’t survive June alone._  
  
He went to the bed and picked up his phone, pressing 2 on speed dial.  
  
A few rings later: “Hi, this is James. Can’t come to the phone right now. Please leave a message after the beep, thanks.”  
  
_BEEP._  
  
Lars hesitated, his fingers digging into the bedspread. And then: “Call me. Please.” Another pause. “I love you, James.” His fingers twisted the sheets, and he whispered, “I’m sorry.”

***

_June 2005_  
  
“You scared me, you know,” James said. “Last month.”  
  
Lars sighed. “Sorry. Didn’t mean to.”  
  
Across the couch of Lars's home, James shifted in his seat. “You’re okay?”  
  
“Yeah. I just freaked out. June and all.”  
  
“I understand.” More shifting. Lars stared at the blank TV screen. He caught James’s minor reflection—how his hands fidgeted, fingers picking at cuticles. “How was Denmark?”  
  
“Good, good.” Lars’s hands weaved together. “How was Hawaii?”  
  
“Nice. I met up with Kirk there.”  
  
“Yeah? How’s he doing?”  
  
“Doing good. Hitting up the surf, relaxing.”  
  
“That’s good.”  
  
James’s hands stopped moving. They rested flat on his thighs, palms smoothing out and rubbing on the denim.  
  
Lars turned his attention to the floor when he saw James’s head turn towards him.  
  
He watched his own hands fidget on his lap—rubbing at each knuckle, stretching each finger out. A yoga move Kirk taught him to keep his hands limber.  
  
Then, James said, “… So.”  
  
Lars licked his lips. “So.”  
  
More silence.  
  
He shut his eyes. The expectations Lars initially had for their meeting since February was a flat-out zero, especially with how Lars ghosted him the entire time he was gone, only to connect on that one couples therapy session. The only one they did since he left. But all that had changed when he saw James waiting for him at the front doorstep of Lars's home, hours after he came home from his flight, and James had embraced him with open arms, holding him so tight it took the wind right out of Lars. And it felt so damn good, like he was actually, truly _home_ …  
  
_Shit._ Lars rubbed his forehead. _This isn’t going well._  
  
“I’m glad,” James said.  
  
“Hm?”  
  
“You know.” James cleared his throat. “About the call. You calling me.” Another fidget that rocked the couch, and then Lars heard a soft whisper: “I missed you.”  
  
_Me too._ But the old panic bubbled up, clutching his throat hostage, and out came instead: “It doesn't mean anything.”  
  
“I know that.”

“Do you really?”

“We've talked about this in couples therapy, Lars. Multiple times.”  
  
“I know, but--”  
  
“I'm not stupid.”  
  
“I'm not saying you are.”  
  
“I'm not going to walk all over your boundaries.”  
  
“But I know what you want out of us and I don't know if I'm ready for it, and I know you want us together and--”

“And I'm saying _we've been over this_.” James's glare stopped Lars's words dead cold. “So drop it. Okay?”

“Shit. Okay.” Lars rubbed his hair. Rubbed his face with his cold, clammy hand. His whole body felt cold, shaky. Out of control and nausea built up in his stomach, burning his throat. “Fuck, I'm doing it again.”  
  
“It's fine.”  
  
“It's _not_. I said I wasn't going to do this again, just be a paranoid overbearing totalitarian freak at you, about us, and here I go doing it again.”  
  
“You're recovering from a series of bad panic attacks. It's understandable.”  
  
“But--”  
  
“ _Drop it._ ”  
  
Lars growled under his breath. He turned his head away from James, focusing his attention on a painting in the corner. A Pollock replica painting of No. 48, one of his favorites.  
  
The couch shifted. He heard James walking away to the kitchen. Heard him putter around, opening and closing doors. Clink of glasses and plates. Heard him futzing around and the sounds equally soothed and annoyed him. It sounded all normal. All fine. And yet _nothing_ felt normal. None of this was normal between them. The painting in front of him mimicked and embodied the chaos Lars felt inside his soul: the black lines, the white canvas, the patterns making no sense and all sense in the insanity, and it felt uneven, wrong and unwelcomed. 

From the kitchen, Lars heard James ask, “Want a snack?”

“No.”

“You haven't eaten all day today.”  
  
“I know.”  
  
“Then how about a tea?”  
  
“I said _no_.”  
  
He heard a door slam _hard_.

As he turned his head, he found James standing in the doorway of the kitchen, his icy glare stabbing him right through the heart. “Just say it.”  
  
He frowned. “Say what?”  
  
“You know what, dickhead.”  
  
“I don't know what the fuck you're talking about.”  
  
James flew his hands up in the air, at the two of them, at Lars. “ _This!_ Everything. I’m _tired_ of it.”  
  
“Tired of what?”  
  
"What’s happening between us."  
  
“Oh goddamn it, James.” Lars looked away and growled, thumbing the bridge of his nose. “Can't we talk about this later? With the therapist?”

“Why can't we talk about it now? Why can't _we_ talk at all, just you and me? What is it that you want? What do you want from me? I'm sick and tired of all of this and I feel like we're going nowhere because you won't get your balls into your hands and just talk, which I personally find astounding considering who you are.”

Lars hissed a loud exhale before he muttered, “Because I don't _want to_ , jackass.” He looked right back at James and the fire growing inside of him lessened the impact of James's icy demeanor. "I'm dealing with panic attacks after panic attacks and my inability to trust you because of _your_ actions of years ago along with my fears that if I give in, just even a fucking inch, you're going to walk all over me all over again and all the shit we've done in therapy is going to lead to this, again, between us. So I'm _sorry_ if I don't want to have any repeat mistakes and I'm _sorry_ I'm not falling into your arms declaring my undying love to because, forgive me if I'm wrong, but I think I'm _quite_ justified in being a little bit fucking wary of your knight-in-shining-armor bullshit. So if you don’t want to be here—”  
  
“ _I do!”_ James took a step closer back into the room, pointing right at Lars. “It's _you_ who doesn't want me here!”

“Can you blame me? Can you honest to God look at our history and say my fears are fucking unwarranted?”

“What about my fears? What about _my_ feelings?”

Lars shot out of his seat, turning fully to James. “Your feelings _always_ came first, dickhead! I always put them first! 'I’m just angry, I’m tired, I'm sad, I don't know what I want, I need this, I need that'-- they _always_ came first! They still come first, when it comes to me!"

" _Bullshit!_ "

“What, because I had the audacity to leave without getting your permission? Because big ol' Mighty Hetfield didn't get a say in what his partner can and cannot do?”

“Don't pull that shit on me.”

“It's true, though, isn't it?” He took a step closer to James. “You've changed a lot but that's the one thing you can't give up. You can't let go of your control. You can't let me--”

“I did!" James took a step closer to Lars. "I wanted _nothing_ more than to chase you down and find you, but I let you go. I let you. You tell me I have control issues? Talk about pot calling kettle black. You deserved to get away just as much as I did, without telling _you_ where _I_ went. But here we are now. In your house, on your terms, doing what you want, and it's because _I fucking love you_ , jackass, and I want to be with you, I want us to be better, but all this has shown, all of this? I'm never going to be good enough for you. I know I— _we_ fucked things up between us, and I’m sorry for what I did to you, I truly am. But this is just it, isn't it? I'm never going to be good enough for you, no matter what I do, and what's worse is just after all this, after everything we've been through, that you could just...” James shook his head. The fight Lars saw in him deflated in one long, loud sigh--and there it came, all the emotions, the walls torn down, just like he did back when the cameras were rolling, but worse. Because this time, James looked more scared, more confused, more upset and more frustrated—and to Lars's shock, defeated. “I don't get why you keep punishing me.”  
  
Lars felt his body stiffen from head to toe. His throat tightened— _what_ —and he forced out, “You think I’m doing that?”  
  
James struggled for the next word, or phrase. And Lars’s panic rose when James sighed, shook his head, turned away and muttered under his breath, “I’ll go make lunch.”  
  
His hand stretched out away from his chest to him. “Wait, James.” The pain in his torso spread out to his stomach. His head felt heavy, his face hot. “Do you honestly think I’m punishing you?”  
  
“I’ll stay ‘til the end of the month.”  
  
“And then…?”  
  
James shrugged. Turned away. Disappeared behind the kitchen doorway.  
  
Lars's whole body flopped onto the couch.

From the kitchen, he heard James rummage through the cabinet and the fridge, making their food.  
  
Lars curled up into the corner, legs folded under him. He caught his reflection in the TV mirror.

All he could see was his mussed hair, his red face and his pale skin.  
  
_Fuck._  
  
He pressed the side of his heavy head to the couch, his hand reaching up to his chest to rub away the pain.

***

_July 2005_  
  
A month later, late at night, Lars arrived on James’s doorstep. He knocked a few times, tried the doorbell, waited, knocked a few more times—and froze at the sharp sound of a lock turning.  
  
James poked his head out, rubbing a hand over his messy hair. “Mrm. What…?” He yawned, and the sleep left him when their eyes met. “Lars?”  
  
“Hi.” He held a greasy bag up. “Hungry?”  
  
“It’s the middle of the night.”  
  
“I got In-And-Out.”  
  
James blinked.  
  
“You know, that burger joint?”  
  
“Yeah, but…” He pushed the door open, gesturing Lars inside. “Right now?”  
  
“Why not?” Lars passed by James. “You like onion rings, right?”  
  
“Uh, sure.”  
  
“Alright then.”  
  
Lars set up their food on two trays, grabbing two soda cans from James’s fridge. They sat at the table, James across from Lars, and took their time eating their meals. No words passed between them. No looks to each other either.  
  
And then: “Okay.”  
  
Lars placed his half-eaten burger on top of the wrapping paper.  
  
“I’ve been thinking.” He reached for the napkins in the middle of the table. “About us.”  
  
When he finished cleaning his hands, he heard James mutter, “Uh-huh?”  
  
_Say it._ His hands slid from the table to his lap. _Fucking say it already._ He picked at a hangnail, a cuticle. _You’ve done enough damage._  
  
Lars took a deep breath.  
  
“The reason—” He cleared his throat. “The reason _is_ me.” His voice lowered as he closed his eyes. “You're right. _I’m_ afraid I’ll fuck up again. I don’t feel like I’m prepared for us—for you.”  
  
In his pause, James said nothing. James was quiet.  
  
Lars’s stomach coiled up tight like his chest.  
  
_Look at him._ His fingers bunched up into fists. _Look him in the face, dammit._  
  
“I mean…” He forced his head up to look James in the eye. “I know a relationship will have its ups and downs, and we’ll always have an argument. Hello, it’s us. But I know we have the skills now to find good resolutions that won’t result in us hurting each other, you know what I mean? But I’m still afraid I’ll just… I don’t know, fuck it all up. I don’t feel like I’m as well prepared as I should be.  
  
“You? Fuck. You, I feel like, you’ve been ready since you left rehab. I’m so proud of the changes you made to yourself. But I’m afraid I’m not—fuck, that’s not the right word. It’s more like… I’m afraid I’m not at the same level you are. I feel like I’m not ready, not prepared, not well equipped, not… fuck, just not right for you. Okay? That’s probably the wrong word to say, but that’s how I feel.  
  
“You’re not like, some god or perfect being, that’s not what I’m saying here. What I mean is that, you’ve gone through so many improvements and changes that made you a better person, to the point where I know you won’t make the same mistakes, and I don’t trust myself enough at that same level, because I don’t see the changes or improvements I made in me. If anything, the fact that I’ve been avoiding you, running away elsewhere, fucking afraid to tell you all this shit, and that you perceived it as me _punishing_ you? That just proves to me that I haven’t changed, I haven’t improved, I haven’t done the things I was supposed to do. You know what I mean?  
  
“And really, I don’t get why I was afraid—why I _am_ afraid to tell you this. I shouldn’t be afraid of you. I love you. And yet, it’s fucking there. After all the therapy we went through, that we're still going through, I feel like I should trust you, and yet I don’t, because I can’t trust myself first when it comes to you. So I punished you. I realize that now. I fucking punished you through my actions, and I will forever hate myself for doing that to you. So, that’s the real reason why. It’s not you, James. It never really was. I’m sorry I hurt you like this, stringing you along with waiting and all that crap. You deserve better.”  
  
His feet moved first, shifting out from under the table. The chair skidded across the floor, and he pushed his knees up, but his body stayed still.  
  
_Don’t you dare._ Lars gritted his teeth. _Don’t run away. Don’t go hide._ His hands squeezed together. _Don’t say ‘fuck it all’ and leave him alone again._  
  
He heard the other chair skid, followed by footsteps padding over. They came in close—Lars froze up—and he jerked in place when a cold hand cupped the side of his face.  
  
“Look at me Lars.”  
  
The other cold hand cupped the other side of his face.  
  
“Please.”  
  
He did. Lips smiled at him, and then he found James’s eyes.  
  
“Thank you.”  
  
His throat constricted when those lips kissed his. He felt his cheeks burn along with his eyes, his vision blurry when he looked up at James and whispered, “You’re not mad at me?”  
  
James’s chuckle soothed away some of the pain. “I was, for a little bit. But right now?” He shook his head no, running a thumb down Lars’s cheek.  
  
_Fuck._ His eyes shut, his heavy head leaning forward onto James’s stomach, his shaky arms winding around James’s hips. _Fucking hell, I’m sorry. I love you. I fucking—_  
  
“I love you.”  
  
That pain eased away when James’s arms settled around his shoulders, a hand cupping the back of his head. His voice vibrated against Lars’s cheek—“I love you too,” and Lars sighed loud, leaning into the fingers gently massaging his scalp.  
  
He breathed in James as slow as possible, until he finally felt okay.

_August 2005_  
  
James finished moving back into Lars's house on his birthday, on the same day their old home sold on the market. There were equal messes in the living room, the kitchen and the bedroom, stacks of open and unopened boxes strewn across the floors. The dressers needed rearranging. So did their closets. They needed to discuss the arrangement in the garage—how to situate James’s little shop, who parked what car where; assigning house duties—who did the dishes when, the laundry, the backyard, the courtyard; and other things—TV time, date nights, and so on. But they had time to deal with all that later.  
  
After lunch, they lounged on the patio couch in swim shorts, watching the clear San Francisco skyline. Lars curled up beside James, a hand on his stomach, while James’s arm rested comfortably around Lars’s shoulders.  
  
“Hey James?”  
  
“Hm?”  
  
“We’re good, right?”  
  
“Huh?”  
  
“You know.” His cheek lolled onto James’s chest. “All of this.”  
  
The hand on his shoulder squeezed and pulled him closer. “Yes.” Soft lips kissed his forehead, right on the hairline. “It’ll be okay.” James’s nose brushed the skin. “One day at a time, babe.”  
  
Lars smiled, a sigh passing out through his nose. _Thank you_. His hand slid up James’s warm chest, until his palm rested over his heart.  
  
In the afternoon, they celebrated James’s birthday alone, by James’s request. They ate a small chocolate cake, opened up Lars’s gift—a digital camera, and then retired to bed, where Lars indulged him all the way past midnight, kissing, touching, and making love to him the way James liked it.

***

_September 2005_  
  
“We’re not—” Lars stopped himself. He took a deep breath and exhaled, “Fuck.” His hand rubbed his forehead. “Okay. I’m not ready. I’m the one not sure about this. Alright?”  
  
He rolled his back to James, the mattress squeaking beneath him. On the nightstand, Lars could see the email on his cellphone from Cliff, Q Prime's head manager. _Hey guys, Cliff here, just wondering when you’re heading back into the studio to rehearse…_  
  
James’s hand settled on his forearm. “How come?”  
  
“Because I forgot.” He shut his eyes. “Because I’m scared.”  
  
Bedsheets shifted. He felt James’s chest press to his back. “Why?”  
  
Lars huffed. “Because I just got you back and because of my fucking stupidity, we haven’t spent the rest of the year working on ourselves like I wanted us to. We only _just_ restarted couples therapy and in this time we have had, we've gotten to get to know each other better and work on our personal lives and shit, and I'm pissed at myself for balking at every opportunity to mend things between us, to do even more couples therapy, because I was scared of being hurt, of hurting you, of us falling apart again—and yet we won’t fucking fall apart again, if I hadn’t acted like a fucking pussy and fucking just…” His hand on the mattress twisted into the cover sheet. Inhale. Hold. Exhale. “Trusted you. And myself.” Another inhale. Another long hold. A loud, shaky exhale, as he jerked it up, the corner popping off. “We’re out of time.”  
  
“Hey.” James’s hand left his forearm to untangle his own hand from the sheet. “Listen to me.” He pulled it away, squeezing the palm. “We haven’t spent the last two months wasting time. We’ve been working on it. And things have gotten better. Right?”  
  
“Yeah…” Lars sighed. “But there’s still a lot to do. A lot we haven’t covered.”  
  
“You’re right. But—here, look at me.” James pulled at his hand, until Lars laid flat on his back. Their eyes met as James released his hold and laid his arm down, flanking Lars’s head. “One gig is not going to ruin what we’ve worked on.”  
  
“Two gigs.”  
  
James smiled. “Okay, two. But it’s not like we’re going anywhere. It’s in our backyard. We’ll be fine.”  
  
Lars gave him a look.  
  
“I mean it.”  
  
“I know you do.” He smiled back, lifting a hand to James’s cheek. “Just wondering when the hell you got so… calm? I don’t know if that’s the right word.” He slid his fingers up into James’s hair. “But thank you. Really. It’s not like me to worry so fucking much, I mean, I blame the panic disorder and all, but I just—”  
  
“Don’t want this to fuck up. Neither do I.” James chuckled, leaning down to kiss Lars’s forehead. “And trust me. It won’t.”  
  
Lars closed his eyes. Both hands weaved into James’s hair, petting him. “Thank you.”  
  
A few hours later, Lars called up Peter and Cliff to tell them the exact date of return, while James sat beside him, organizing both of their calendars.

***

_October 2005_  
  
“Hey Lars,” Kirk said.  
  
Lars smiled. “Hey man.” He finished pouring his cup of coffee. “Rob in yet?”  
  
“On the way. Chloe had to kick him out of bed.” Kirk leaned against the kitchen table, stealing one of the donuts from Lars’s plate. “Weren’t you on a diet a year ago?”  
  
“It’s Friday, fuck off.”  
  
“That and James likes his chocolate.”  
  
Lars rolled his eyes. “It won’t kill us to indulge now and then.” He reached for the pink box next to his tray and grabbed another chocolate glazed donut from inside.  
  
“You just like spoiling him.”  
  
“So what if I do?”  
  
Kirk chuckled. “Wife.”  
  
“Tch.” Lars situated his cup of coffee next to James’s mug of mint tea. “You’re just jealous.”  
  
He listened to Kirk’s chewing as he fixed the cutlery around the plate. When his hands grabbed the tray’s edge, Kirk said, “You look better. Both of you do.”  
  
Lars smiled. “Heh. Yeah.” He lifted the tray up and sent a passing look to Kirk. “It’s nice.”  
  
“I’m glad. You two deserve to be happy.” Kirk’s voice followed him on the way out of the kitchen, into the control room. “Tell me everything later, alright?”  
  
“Will do!”  
  
He found James sitting at the audioboard, headphones on, his hands drumming out a beat. Riffs from Kirk’s CD muffled out, and James’s head swayed to the music, muttering along to the melody under his breath.  
  
Lars rested the tray on the computer desk next to it, pushing the keyboard aside. He stood by James’s side, indulging in the sight of him lost in music, and then touched his shoulder gently, giving it a light squeeze.  
  
James startled, losing his groove. His head sharply turned to the left, and a big beaming smile replaced the shock. “Hey babe.” He pushed his headphones off, letting them hang around his neck. “What’s up?”  
  
He leaned in and kissed James on the lips. “You’re not supposed to listen to new stuff yet.”  
  
“I know.” James shrugged. “Can’t help it.”  
  
“Well, stop. I got us breakfast before rehearsal.”  
  
“Donuts?”  
  
Lars frowned. “You peeked, didn’t you?”  
  
“Yeah I did.”  
  
“Dick.”  
  
“Hey!” James chuckled. “I did want them, you know.” He sat up from his chair, pushing away from the audioboard. His hands went to Lars’s hips, pulling him in. “And I’m really happy you got them for us.”  
  
“And the rest of HQ.” Lars rested his hands on James’s chest. “We’re not the only ones here, you know.”  
  
“Right now we are.”  
  
“And Kirk and Mike.”  
  
“That doesn’t constitute as everyone.”  
  
“They’ll be in soon enough.”  
  
“Heh.” James gave him one more kiss, squeezing his hips. “Little steps, babe,” he whispered over Lars’s lips. “One day at a time.”  
  
Lars felt a chill come over him as James pulled away and reached for their breakfast plate. He took a deep breath and rubbed his arms. _One day at a time,_ and James was right. These moments would be far and few between. In HQ, it was okay. They were safe around Kirk and Rob, and Mike, and Jeff, and others. This was a safe place—so James said. Eventually, they’d get used to being like this elsewhere. Maybe. The Rolling Stones gig coming up next month would be the first step. But the nice thing was James shared his sentiments of privacy— _always did, heh_ —and it helped, knowing he wasn’t alone.  
  
“Hey, you want some?” Lars smiled, hearing James’s stuffed voice a second later: “Ohr ahmf I eathing them all?”  
  
He turned back around and walked over to him, that chill fading away.

***

_November 2005_  
  
Everything that could go wrong did—on stage and off. Despite multiple rehearsals leading up to Night One for the Rolling Stones opening gig, they weren’t as tight as they should’ve been. Kirk fumbled on his solo for Fade. James forgot the words during Turn the Page. Rob stumbled on King Nothing backing vox. And Lars fucked up on everything; cues for Disappear, beats on Master, tempo for Orion’s damn debut.  
  
Their new tour manager assured him otherwise. “It was good, really. Those minor screw ups weren’t noticeable. I didn’t even hear Kirk’s screw up on Fade.”  
  
Lars tuned him out. He tuned out a lot of people that night. The wayward stares, all those whispers, their looks and smiles and frowns and everything else that fluttered around whenever he or James did something together. Judging. Scrutinizing.  
  
“Seriously, Lars, they’ve known about you two for a long time,” Kirk said. “Do you honestly think they’d talk behind _any_ of our backs?”  
  
“I know, I know.” He slumped back in his chair. Their dressing room was clear of everyone, including Rob and James. “Fuck.” Lars covered his face with his cold hands. “I can’t help it. I’m worried.”  
  
“What for?”  
  
“Just…” _Talk. People. James’s anxiety over privacy. My anxiety over privacy. Balancing. Maintaining. Dealing with a panic disorder._ “Shit.” _Not fucking this up. Not fucking James up. Not fucking myself up. Not fucking anything up._ “You know.”  
  
“No, I don’t.”  
  
“Fuck’s sake.” Lars slapped his hands down onto his thighs. “Personal and professional, Kirk. That’s always been our biggest problem. We handled it well in the early 90s, but towards the end, it all went to hell in the end—and _everyone_ saw it happen.” He shook his head. “I can’t have that happen again. I can’t handle that again.”  
  
He felt Kirk’s hand settle on his shoulder. “Have you talk to James about this yet?”  
  
Lars sighed. “Yes and no. We talked about privacy with our couples therapist and how we’re on the same page and shit—”  
  
“But not about the whole personal-professional thing.”  
  
“ _Or_ what happened before, yeah.”  
  
Kirk squeezed his shoulder. “Bro. You gotta.”  
  
“I know.”  
  
“I’m serious, man. You have to. This isn’t healthy.”  
  
“I _know._ Believe me.” He reached up to pat Kirk’s hand and pull it away. “I’ll talk to him. Promise.”  
  
“Tonight?”  
  
“Tomorrow.” Lars stood up from his chair and turned to his cubby, taking out his things inside. “He wouldn’t be in the mood, and quite frankly, neither am I.”  
  
“Alright…” Lars froze for a second when he felt two arms hug him from behind, and a chest pressed up to his back. Kirk’s soft whisper sounded loud in his ear. “He loves you, Lars. Truly. Trust him, and it’ll be okay. Okay?”  
  
Lars nodded and whispered back, “Okay.” He squeezed one of Kirk’s forearms. “Thanks.”  
  
The arms tightened. “No problem.” A hand patted his chest as Kirk pulled away. “See ya in two days.”  
  
Lars found James twenty minutes later waiting for him in the drivers seat, listening to Tool on the radio. He said nothing when Lars sat on the passengers side. Both stayed quiet all the way across the Bridge back home to Tiburon.  
  
Once inside the house, with their stuff unpacked in their bedroom, James finally said, “Come here.”  
  
“What?”  
  
“Come _here._ ” And James didn’t let him react, his arms securing around Lars’s torso, his cheek pressing onto the top of Lars’s head. “It was a shitty night, but it wasn’t the end of the world. Alright?”  
  
Lars’s arms found their way around James’s waist. “Yeah.” He sighed into James’s chest, closing his eyes. _Tell him,_ Kirk’s voice in his head said. _Tell him dammit._ “Yeah, you’re right.” His fingers dug into James’s shirt. “We, uh, need to talk.”  
  
James froze. “Now?”  
  
“Oh God _no,_ no no no.” Lars slid a hand down James’s spine, and then up. “Later. Not now. And not without our therapist. I don’t have the damn energy for it anyway.”  
  
“Heh.” One of James’s hands rubbed small circles on his back. “Neither do I.” The movements stopped. James slowly pulled away, only to kiss him on the lips. “Come on. Sleep first.” His fingers skipped down Lars’s cheek. “We both need it.”  
  
Lars smiled. “You said it.”  
  
When they settled into bed, James’s arm covering his belly like their sheets, Lars realized in his sleepy stupor something huge: that was the first time neither of them snapped at each other on their performances, what they were doing backstage, what took the other so long showing up, why this, who that, nothing. And it helped Lars relax, easing into a comfortable sleep.

***

_December 2005_  
  
“When’s the last time we did this?” Lars asked.  
  
James placed another ornament on the tree. “Did what?”  
  
“This.” Lars’s hand fell on the small of his back. “You, me… all of this.”  
  
He turned to his left and found Lars staring up at the angel on top of the tree. “You mean, without something happening.”  
  
The hand skipped off and away. Lars sighed, running fingers through his hair. The old telltale signs of panic--the suffocating, the rushing sound in his ears, the way the room spun--it came full force, and he curled his toes into the carpet, hard. “I wish I could stop it." Big inhale. Big, loud, long exhale. He uncurled his toes. "We're over it. _I’m_ over it." He swallowed hard against his constricted, dry throat. "Or, I should be, at least.” He shook his head, slapping his hand on his thigh. “And yet, here I am, bringing it up again.”  
  
“I don’t blame you.” James turned to Lars. “It’s still fresh.”  
  
“Talking about it? Yeah. But what happened before is like, fucking six or seven years old now, you know what I mean? It’s old news.”  
  
James rested his fingers under Lars’s chin, tilting his head towards him. His chest ached when he saw the way Lars looked: afraid, sad, disappointed, angry—all aimed at himself. “It still hurts.”  
  
Lars glanced away. “I wish…” He pulled out of the hold. “Nevermind.”  
  
“Lars.” His hands grabbed Lars’s hips, holding him in place. “Remember what our therapist said."

"Talk to you."

"Exactly."

"Don't bottle it up."

"Right.”  
  
“But that’s _exactly_ it, James.” Lars’s eyes shined when he looked at him again. “I don’t want to bottle it up. I know I shouldn’t hold it in. But I’m so fucking tired of all of this. I hate this disorder. I’m tired of worrying. Tired of being unsure. And as much as we've gotten to talk about the whole personal-professional thing with our therapist this month and how good that conversation was and how promising it will be between us going forward, I just… don’t know. I don’t fucking know. And I hate that I don’t fucking know what the fuck is going to happen.” He closed his eyes. “I just want us to be okay.”  
  
James’s hands slid up Lars’s sides. “We just have to keep talking.” He leaned in and kissed Lars’s lips. “As long as we do that, it will be okay.”  
  
Their foreheads touched and pressed together. Lars’s arms drifted up to hang loosely around James’s neck. “I hope so.”  
  
Dinner went by easy. They talked more than they ate. Afterwards, they washed the pots, pans and dishes together, talking still, and later headed to the bedroom to shower and talk some more. James said his thoughts, Lars listened and followed with his own, then James, then Lars—a back and forth that went well past midnight.  
  
By the time they finished, lying side by side on their bed, Lars smiled and said, “You’re right.”  
  
“About talking?”  
  
“Yeah.”  
  
James smiled. He reached and pulled Lars to him, tucking him under his chin. “I know.” His hand petted Lars’s side. “It’s hard, especially on me, talking so much. But rehab showed me we have to. It shows I trust you.” His lips brushed Lars’s forehead. “Because I do, Lars. I trust you.”  
  
Lars rested a hand on James’s chest. “I trust you too, min skat.” He sighed into the skin, closing his eyes. “I just wish...”  
  
“Shh. Not a word.” He squeezed Lars in his arms. “You spoke your peace. So did I. And we’ll take care of your demons like we take care of mine, little by little.”  
  
Lars’s whole body relaxed as he sighed. His cheek rubbed against James’s sternum. “God.” His hand slid up to rest over James’s heart. “ _Jeg elsker dig, James. Jeg elsker dig så meget._ ”  
  
James answered in a kiss to the top of his head.  
  
In the morning, they woke up for the first time without the weight of the past on their shoulders.

**Author's Note:**

> I added some more things to this old story and changed it from a multi-chapter to a one shot. It's a bit more personal for me as I'm now a married woman and I went through a lot of couples therapy and pre-martial counseling leading up to said marriage. I cannot recommend it enough for people who are in long-term relationships. So while this fic isn't a supremely happy ending or sappy ending or even a smutty ending, I think I love it more because it's a real reflection of a long term relationship with baggage and issues. Any LTR will have that. A marriage is not easy. Love is a choice and love is work, and I think James and Lars portray that well in this fic. Definitely took a lot from my own new marriage (just got married last month!) and put it into here.


End file.
